Stranger in a Strange Land
by Dothurnaax
Summary: Left for dead in a ravaged United States, Michael Ravon finds himself in foreign lands amongst foreign lives. With but his provisions from the old world and a wealth of questionably useful knowledge, Michael must carve his way into this new world, and prove that he is more than simply a stranger in a strange land.
1. I: Death of the Modern World

**Stranger in a Strange Land**

**By Dothurnaax**

**Chapter One: Death of the Modern World**

Tonight isn't much different than the past few weeks. Windows are locked and boarded, doors are barricaded, all lights are off, and I'm sitting in the living room of my house with the family double barrel in my lap watching the news. Well, there are actually two things missing from this; my parents.

_It's 8:00 pm and they're not back yet. They've been gone all day and the fucking Islamic invasion isn't giving me any happy thoughts. _I thought, my heart racing as I watched the television.

On the screen, I saw Fox News with a headline of 'America under Siege.' The reporter was speaking of nation-wide military engagements, genocide in every major population center, and countless acts of terrorism.

Having enough of watching far off shots of insurrectionists firing into civilian-occupied buildings, I grabbed the remote and quickly turned off the tv, bathing the living room in a comfortable darkness.

I sighed as the minutes ticked by, waiting for the family series of knocks on the back door to signal my parents return. _Terrorist activity is pretty high here. I might as well stop keeping my hopes up._ My eyes watered at the thought of my parents being dead, but I had to be realistic here. Standing up and resting the shotgun on the arm of the couch, I scooted a candle on the coffee table over to the center before retrieving a pen and piece of paper and beginning to write.

Once finished, I dropped the pen next to the paper and read it over.

_Mother and Father,_

_You have been gone exactly fourteen hours as of the time of this message's creation, August 14, 2014, and as hard as I've tried, I cannot continue to tell myself that you will be coming home. I wish I could go back in time and take advantage of the years I spent alone in my room, wasting my life on video games and the internet. I wish I realized how much you meant to me when you offered to go to the ball game down in Arlington. If you are still alive, and you come across this letter, then know that I have either died protecting the country we love, or I am still out there showing these terrorist bastards why you don't mess with Texas._

_If you have passed on, then I hope you're in a better place. Somewhere devoid of pain, hatred, and malice. And I hope that you're watching over me and guiding me through these hellish times._

_But there's one thing I will not say, and that is good bye. I hate good byes. If you think about it, if you don't say good bye, then you're not really gone… you're just not here right now. I love you both, more than words can ever express._

_Your son,_

_Michael Ravon_

I sniffed softly and wiped away a tear, setting the letter down on the coffee table. Sitting in the darkness, I allowed my mind to emotionally drain itself in the form of silent rivers of tears.

My state of mourning was abruptly interrupted by the sound of pounding against the front door. My left hand snapped to the wooden hand rest on the underside of the double barrel leaning against the couch. Shouldering the shotgun, I kept the barrels pointed at the door, slowly backing up behind the island in the kitchen.

I slowly lowered my body to the ground, lying on my chest with the shotgun pressed against my shoulder. I positioned myself to where my body curved around the corner of the grounded table. Moments of silence passed, and for a split instant, I thought I was safe.

Oh, how I was wrong. Right as I begin getting up from my position, the front door and most of that wall became flying debris as it was disintegrated, a loud _boom _accompanying the sloppy breach. I pressed my head down into my left arm, protecting my face from the multiple shards of glass, wood and metal that pelted the top of my head and back.

Ringing filled my ears, but not enough to drown out any other sound. Through the painful sensation, I could hear the muffled voices of the ones behind the explosion. Slowly tilting my head back, I remained frozen as I watched the silhouettes of three men walk in with what looked like rifles. They were speaking in a language foreign to my mind, and one thing screamed in my mind. _Terrorists_.

They didn't seem to notice me, rather being focused on further vandalizing the living room, taking anything they deemed valuable. Using their obliviousness to my advantage, I slowly pulled myself back behind the island, holding onto the shotgun with an iron grip.

The ringing quickly died off, returning my full senses to me. My breathing was forced, inconsistent, and rather shallow, revealing just how terrified I was. I could hear two of them bickering in the living room, but what forced my blood to run cold were the footsteps slowly growing closer.

I felt a small boost of confidence when I heard the sound of something being unprofessionally set on the countertop opposite of the island. Whoever was in the kitchen had left his rifle on the table while he looted, and this will be his last mistake. With a held breath, I peeked around the corner to see find what seemed to be the headlights of a vehicle shining in the house.

Returning my mind to the man standing not four feet away, I quickly formed a plan in my head. Rise above the island, kill the two in the living room, then stock-bash the third in the back of the head. Assuming I could pull that off, that would leave me three rifles and a vehicle. _Well, _I thought with my heart racing, _here goes nothing._

I quickly counted to three in my head before shooting my body up over the counter, my eyes looking down the barrels. I saw that the two intruders were standing side by side, holding what looked to be the goodbye note to my parents. I clenched both triggers with slight hesitation, sending the two buck shots deep into the backs of the terrorists.

As my mind pushed through the shock of killing, I turned my head to combat the third. Before I could swing the heavy barrels of the gun, I was tackled to the ground, the shotgun thrown from my grip.

I grunted in a mix of terror and rage as I struggled to get this guy off of me. I could feel his hands trying to wrap around my neck, and I knew that if they did, it was all over. As he leaned his head over mine, I spit in his eye and shot my right hand from his forearm to his eye, digging my thumb into the squishy orb in his skull.

The assailant screamed in agony and rolled onto his back, both hands cupping his leaking eyeball. I ripped open one of the cabinets beside me and reached in, grabbing anything that felt hard and sturdy.

My hand wrapped around the handle of a heavy wood and marble rolling pin. I jerked the cooking utensil out from the pile of various cooking wears, simultaneously rolling myself up on top of him.

With a rage-filled cry, I slammed the rolling pin down onto the terrorists' forehead. Again and again I beat the agony-riddled man. The edges of my vision grew red, and even as his skull caved in more and more, I continued my bloody rampage.

Everything blanked as rage consumed me. What seemed like the blink of an eye later, I saw the ladle on the floor next to me, and what remained of the attacker's head. My breath halted, and I slowly looked down to my shaking hands, covered in blood. I tore my eyes from my hands after what seemed like an eternity.

Gore. A sickening mixture of blood, brain matter, skull bits, and various other bodily fluids covered the floor, both of our clothes, and my face. My stomach churned, and I felt myself forced over as it released its contents.

No amount of video games, internet, or horror movies could have prepared me for what I had just done, what I had just gone through. I sat down, my back leaned against the island, and allowed the tears to fall.

Tears of emotional murder, the knowledge that if these men found me, then there was no doubt that I would never see my parents again.

Tears of primal sympathy, for as much as I hated and despised the invaders, how much I tried to convince myself that they deserved it, all my emotional eyes saw were three fellow humans.

And tears of fear, the internal, rooted terror of knowing that I was no longer safe in my own home, the petrifying truth that I will most certainly die soon. My personal clock of life was ticking, and it was going to halt soon, but I didn't know when.

For what seemed like ages I cried into my arms and knees. Before had I known I'd be forced to end the life of three humans, in my own country, in my own _home_, I probably would have been excited. I would have been pumped, knowing that "I'd get to defend my country from some towelhead bastards with a bald eagle and an m16", as my father would have put it.

But in reality, I was no hero. I was no Rambo, capable of slaughtering half of Cambodia with a smile on my face and America the Brave playing in the back. I was just a scared-shitless teenager.

It took all of my mental strength to convince myself to get up. I surveyed the open kitchen and living room before resting my hand on the rifle the now more than dead terrorist left on the island. Picking up the rifle and checking the magazine, I found that it had a full thirty rounds in the magazine. Slinging the rifle on my shoulder, I approached the two men lying face down on the couch and coffee table.

The first thing my eyes locked on was my note to my parents. I knew that its purpose was irrelevant at this point, but I felt that I needed to leave it there as a final departure to my old life. It had a few drops of blood scattered across the vanilla paper, giving it an almost Hollywood-like appearance.

Laying the note back on the table beside the candle, which was still burning somehow, I searched the two that I shot, and produced an m9 bayonet and three more Kalashnikov magazines, all full.

After stuffing the magazines into my hoodie pocket, I carefully picked up the candle, stepped over the bodies and walked into my parent's bedroom. Setting the candle down on the nightstand next to their bed, I squatted down and reached under the bed, grabbing a box and pulling it out into the dim light.

Slowly opening the old, polished wooden box, I felt my heart flutter as memories flooded my mind. Within the box, in a royal red felt, lied my grandfather's .357 Python. The frame of the family heirloom was midnight black with a gold-plated trigger and hammer, spearing out with a 5" barrel. The wooden grip was a deep, beautiful cherry red, masterfully engraved in the wood was the picture of a farmstead house and wooden windmill.

My dad used to tell me when I was little that my grandfather stole all the money from the government to pay for the work done on this pistol.

On the left side was the manufacturing year, 1957, along with a black lettered, double stacked quote on a golden banner that read, 'Lotta per la gloria, lotta per la famiglia', Italian for 'Fight for glory, fight for family', and finally a name above the quote, "Michael". On the opposite side were my grandparent's names, Ken and Joy, with a year in the middle, 1962, representing the day they wed.

My grandparents had "Michael" engraved in the gun in honor of the archangel Michael of the Book of Revelation, in which the archangel defeats Satan in the war in heaven. I am, by no means, a religious person, but my grandparents loved to tell the story of Michael to my father, hence my name.

Gently gripping the weapon, I pulled it out of the box and rested it on the bed. Gently sliding the box back under the bed, I searched the room for .357 magnum bullets. Unfortunately, I only found twenty-four shots, and with the six in the cylinder, that adds up to thirty. Then again, they were for a family heirloom meant to be just that, so I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

I rested it semi-uncomfortably in the back pocket of my jeans. It didn't take long for the uncomfortability to turn into a front-minded annoyance. _Who needs four pockets anyway?_ I thought to myself. A minute and a knife later, I transformed my back right pocket into a DIY gun holster, in which the revolver, which I had renamed to _Raven_, in honor of my family name, now sits.

I dumped my dad's hiking backpack of the school supplies I had been using the previous week, and began loading it with whatever I could. Searching every cabinet, every drawer, and every closet. With close to twenty minutes past, I felt an uneasiness pitting itself in my gut.

All I had managed to scavenge from the house were a few cans of preservatives and about three pounds of dry meat. This was my only supply in terms of food, as all I had managed to find that would last longer than a day were four water bottles, a stainless steel thermos, and about fifty feet of quarter-inch thick paracord. While all of these things would more than likely come in handy, I can't exactly _eat _paracord. And those water bottles are almost five days old, so who knows how much of the bottle has dissolved into the water.

_No, _I thought to myself, _stop dwelling on the negatives. Enough bad shit has happened to you already, remember what Mr. Smith always says, "A positive attitude and mindset will drive a man just as far as a 32 oz steak." _A soft smirk pushed onto my face for a moment as I recalled my favorite high school teacher.

_Alright, let's get this planned out. _I thought, resting my backpack on the ground leaning against the table, next to the Soviet-made rifle.

_I have roughly four days-worth of food and water, assuming I ration properly. Most of the city has been reduced to rubble, meaning I won't exactly have to deal with rush hour. If Lady Luck is on my side, that truck outside will have enough gas for me to reach Fort Hood. _I thought about the country's largest military base for a moment before shaking my head.

_No way in hell I'd even get to it, assuming the military _doesn't _shoot me. I think my best bet would be to get to the Piney Woods in the East, and work my way up to the Great Lakes, and into the Southern Canadian forests. Plenty of isolation, no reason for IDS's to go there, an entire lake for water, and thousands of miles of forest for food._

It was a long shot, but it seemed to be the most logical for me. _Don't get your hopes too high Mikey, baby steps. Focus on getting out the city alive._

I grabbed the loaded AK and went upstairs and into my dad's work office. He telecommuted for a military contractor, who paid him surprisingly well. While I was stuck in school, he spent his spare time planning extensive, prolonged vacations. With any luck, there will be a map of the United States as a whole.

One flight of stairs and desk looting later, I released a sigh of relief as my fingers graced a US traveling map, complete with damn near every city to ever be founded and every road that lined the great nation.

With the map, and all the provisions I can manage and what little bravery I had left in me, I took tight hold of my kalashnikov and began my way out of the house.

Though right before I exit the building, I hear a groan of agony from behind me. Turning my head with rage pulsing to my eyes, I see one of the two men I shot, desperately clawing at the floor. No matter how hard I try to get myself to ignore him, my humanity prevails, and I turn back to him.

"Y-you will n-not survive, I-Infidel." The Islamist coughs out, accompanied by a copious amount of blood.

"As terrible of a person as you are, no one deserves to suffer like this. Tell Allah and Satan I said hello, will ya?" I spit, raising the rifle to my shoulder with the barrel pointed at his head. Pressure squeezes the trigger, but I falter. It seems impossible to get myself to pull the trigger, no matter what I try to tell my mind, it won't comply. I finally take a deep breath, close my eyes, and try to make a fist with my hand. Sure enough, the bark of a bullet fills the house, and the man's head partially collapses in on itself.

Looking away before I lose control over my stomach for a second time, I took a shaky breath before walking out of the house and over to the truck the three arrived in. Setting my bag in the passenger seat, I get in the driver seat with the rifle laid across my lap, shift the vehicle into drive, and floor the gas pedal, desperate to get as far from here as possible.

**2 hours later**

The drive has been tedious, and terror-filled. Multiple times I had passed by entire Death Squads, and multiple times I have prayed to whoever is watching me that they were careless enough to assume the Islam-marked truck wasn't highjacked.

The gas meter was dangerously low, and I prayed that it would last me past the suburbs. I begin feeling the fatigue of the constant adrenaline begin taking its toll, as my limbs begin to feel like lead, and my eyelids threatening to close as if they were weighted. My head begins to droop, and I feel the vehicle start to swerve.

As I try to tell myself to stay awake, I suddenly feel an explosion of searing hot pain in my left arm and side. My eyes snap open and I scream in pain as all control over the truck is lost. I grip the steering wheel with all I can as the vehicle bounces over the concrete barrier and off the bridge.

My breath catches in my throat as I watch a building rapidly grow closer and closer. _Not like this, _I thought, and then, darkness.

* * *

An intense ringing consumed my world, accompanied by nausea, vertigo, nigh-unbearable pain, the whole nine yards. But through all of this, my mind caught a soft voice.

_Michael. _It spoke. _Get out. Now. _

Like an adrenaline shot, a burst of energy suddenly flooded my body. Life returns to me with a painful cough and a deep breath. My eyes once again snap open, quickly taking in my darkened surroundings.

It seems that I crashed into a pawn shop or gun store of some sort, if the many guns are any indicator. I look behind me to see the faint silhouettes of presumably the men who shot me line up at the edge of the bridge. Ignoring the pain of the two bullets lodged so ruthlessly in my body, I force myself through the broken window of the truck.

A yelp and scream of pain erupts from me when I fall another few feet onto the tile floor of the building. I cringe and instinctively crawl away from the hanging vehicle as the sound of bullets impacting it ping through the air, physically flinching as each round impacts the exposed vehicle and floor beneath. Leaning against what used to be the front counter, I take a moment to regain my breath and take in the situation forced upon me. Glancing down my body, I took notice of two holes in the side of my jacket, stained red with my blood. My arms and legs had dozens of shallow slices and cuts, most likely from the windshield after the twenty meter plummet from the bridge, and my leg was twisted in an unnatural way. To say I had gotten chewed up would be an understatement.

_I'm stuck in a chained off gun shop with a hail storm of AKs waiting a hundred feet up with two shots lodged in me. I don't think I'm getting much farther. _My thoughts return to the bridge, and a question itches in my mind.

_Collect the supplies._The voice spoke once more. I frantically looked around the store, feeling my body up for a weapon with the right hand, but no matter where I looked, I found no person, no origin for the voice.

_How did I survive that? _I looked back up to the truck lodged in the ceiling and tilt my head slightly. _Doesn't matter, I need to find something to stop the bleeding and fast. _I looked around to try to spot a first aid kit, or some gauze, or anything. My eyes drift to the glass display case behind me, and I spy a fully stocked medical kit, along with a Kevlar duffel bag, two large serrated combat knives, a military-grade two filter gas mask, and an ArmsCor Ultra FS HC. This pistol is the perfect blend of the historical Colt 1911 and the rugged, versatile modern pistol platform. Chambered in 10mm, the pistol has a lower tactical rail, threaded barrel, which allows attachments such as muzzle breaks and suppressors, and a double stack magazine, capable of housing sixteen bullets plus one in the chamber. Standing in front of the pistol, coincidentally enough, were two suppressors. A promotional sale tag lies in front of the bundle, reading _Only $1,499.99!_

_Shatter the glass. You'll need them. _I heard again, as if the speaker were right next to me. I groan and look around me, finding my family revolver, _Raven_, lying a few feet from me. I slid it to my hand with my foot and grabbed the weapon by the barrel. With a pained expression on my face, I looked away and smashed the glass behind me, resulting in my upper body falling back a little.

Tears now flooding from my eyes, I reached in the display case, slid the shoulder strap of the duffel bag up my arm a ways, and started packing the previously for-sale bundle. The pistol and its accompanying ammo; three boxes of forty. Then the gas mask and its filters. My strength was fading fast, so fast that I could barely maintain my grip on the rather large first aid kit.

_Your time is at it's end. _In defiance of death's beckoning, I felt rage quickly fill my mind. So many questions, so many complaints, all reaching their boiling points.

"Who are you?!" I roared into the dark with the last of my strength. Spots started to flash at the corners of my vision. My eyelids grew heavier, and I found breathing to be more and more of a chore with each passing second.

_Rest now. For this is just the beginning for you, Michael. _

Barely clinging to consciousness, I heard what sounded like cheering in the distance, no doubt the Death Squad. I faintly heard a hissing sound. And then; darkness.

**Chapter started 11/09/17. Chapter finished 09/29/19. Minor Chapter editing 11/13/19.  
**

**I'm not the greatest at finishing things in a timely manner.**

**Words: 4,099**

**Your first time experimental writer,**

**\- Dothurnaax**


	2. II: Courage and Confusion

**Stranger in a Strange Land**

**By Dothurnaax**

**Chapter II: Courage and Confusion**

"Thank you kindly! Come again!" A merchant called as the red dragon bid farewell to the market with a neck-slung bag filled with an assortment of spices and edible greens.

_Man, Warfang is simply amazing! _The male drake, Flame, thought with enthusiasm. _Definitely beats that hellscape of a desert during the Cataclysm Wars. _A mock snarl curled onto his face momentarily before returning to his usual cheerful grin.

_Now to muster the balls to finally ask Ember out. _His mental one participant conversation switched topics. "I've held off waves of Malefor's twisted elemental forces with tooth and claw and fought down and torched a full blown Behemoth," Flame voiced with a chuckle, "and yet I freeze up like a hatchling to a barely sprouted Frog Weed anytime I'm so much as in the same room with her. I'm pathetic."

"Perhaps if you had actually gotten off your ass and chipped in to all that fighting, you'd have the stones to ask a girl to dinner!" Flame's head whipped around with a cheeky grin to see a sage green dragon trotting up to him with an equal facial expression.

"Suck a bulb Krake, I kicked just as much ass as you did. Besides, I seem to recall distracting the troll so a certain _someone _could catch a break from getting rag-dolled around the village for half an hour." The red retorted in an accusing tone.

"I can neither confirm nor deny the events that took place." Krake dodged, causing both drakes to crack up laughing. "But seriously, is today the day?" He asked after they calmed down.

Flame motioned with his head to follow as he began walking through the outskirts of the market district, towards the conglomerate of buildings that made up the citadel that was the Warfang Temple, where Flame among thousands of other dragons among his age group resided.

"More so tonight's the night, but yeah." He looked down at his feet as they walked before shifting his gaze to his friend. "I know I shouldn't be freaking out like this, but I can't help but feel anxious, nervous, terrified, and a thousand other emotions I'm not entirely sure should even exist," he continued, "I have no clue what to say to her, and every time I imagine her rejecting me, I feel any confidence I had managed to collect fall apart like a paper-mâché bomb shelter. What in the name of the gods do I do?"

His friend chuckled, shaking his head slightly with a smirk cracked onto his features. "I know exactly how you feel bro. I'm more than aware that it's a hell of a lot easier said than done, but you just gotta take a deep breath and tell her how you feel." He stopped Flame and rested a hand on the nervous dragon's shoulder. "You'll be fine man. Just don't overdo it, and I have no doubt you'll be tapping her by the end of the month." Krake finished with a wide grin on his face.

Flame laughed and playfully punched his friend's shoulder. "Go to hell man." The two friends shared a moment of laughter before continuing on their walk, conversing through whatever topic came to mind.

* * *

_Rest now. For this is just the beginning for you, Michael. _

Air rushed into my lungs as the words of the mystical voice seemed to breathe life into me for the second time. I tried to open my eyes, only to be blinded by the blaring sunlight. Wait, sunlight? _I was bleeding out in a pawn shop, why sunlight? _With a shielding forearm, I carefully opened my eyes, making sure to do so in increments, as to allow my pupils to properly dilate. As my senses seemed to reactivate, the sounds of nature, primarily wind blowing through trees and birds chirping, filled the air around me.

I inspected my surroundings as much as I could with a head planted in the ground and found I was in a forest. Turning my head to the left, I spotted the duffle bag I had gotten my hands on before I passed out. A small smile spread on my face as I looked back into the deep blue sky, taking in and savoring the peace the forest brought.

Then suddenly it hit me.

_Wait, what the hell am I doing in a forest?!_

I started to push myself into a sitting position, but a harsh roar-like scream ripped through my vocal chords as I immediately felt an explosion of pain in my side. My nervous system must have somehow underwent sensory adaptation to fucking _bullet wounds_, but the moment I moved my torso, oh it let me know.

I looked back to the duffel bag with now blurry vision due to the overflow of tears. My left hand shot out and grabbed it, just barely in reach. Pulling it next to me, I ripped it open and scrounged for the first aid kit. I unzipped the hard case and grabbed a roll of gauze and what looked like a short sterilized needle with a tiny bladder. Printed in even smaller text on said bladder looked to be a chemical formula. _'C__17 __H__19 __NO__3__' _It took me a moment of remember my high school chemistry class and various YouTube videos, but in a moment, it clicked. _Morphine. Thank the gods!_

With a pained expression, I lifted my jacket and shirt up to reveal my wound, which consisted of two dark holes surrounded by a sickly purple, completely coated in blood. I took a few quick breaths before sticking myself in the arm with the morphine shot.

Another scream tore through my throat and into the air, this time significantly louder and more primal than my last. I saw various birds suddenly rush from the trees into the skies. _Alright,_ I thought, _I have about twenty minutes before I'm akin to a hydrocodone junkie._

My first and foremost priority was to slow the bleeding. That injection spiked my heart-rate and my brain is no doubt _dumping _adrenaline into my system. My wounds have been agitated, and now they're bleeding faster than when I awoke.

I reached in the first aid kit and, after a brief moment of shuffling through its contents, retrieved a bottle of alcohol and a small plastic bag of cotton patches. I doused the cotton in the alcohol and took a quick breath before pressing it against my wound. The pain of getting shot was a walk in the park compared to this. A consistent stream of growls, screams, and curses echoed through the air while I gritted my teeth and wrapped the gauze around my lower torso, making sure there was a healthy amount of pressure on the gaping blood geysers, which were now considerably more pissed off.

Finally, _finally, _the wounds were dealt with. I let my head rest on the ground, tears flowing from my eyes in salty streams as I groan-cried for what felt like millennia. The pain was simply more than I could manage with a cognitive mind. I mentally prayed for the pain to go away. My hands were currently white-knuckled into whatever they could grasp; my left gripping the shoulder sling of my duffel bag, and the other was sunken a few centimeters into the soft dirt.

_You need to move Michael, _my subconscious nagged me, _at least give yourself the peace of mind of passing out in a dignified position. Napping face up in the dirt soaked in blood without so much as a gun in hand? Is that what you've amounted to?_

I allowed another pain-filled groan to vibrate my core before I gritted my teeth and dug my boots into the ground before pushing myself back. Another explosion of pain surfaced from my left leg; my eyes confirming that it was still broken and twisted. I dragged the duffel bag up next to me, then repeated this process except with only my right leg, allowing my incapacitated left leg to drag lifelessly on the ground. With each movement my body did all it could to protest. My side felt like it was getting tag teamed by a hive of Asian giant hornets and a colony of bullet ants.

The adrenaline began taking over once more, giving me enough temporary fuel to force myself against a tree. With my back propped against it, the duffel bag resting next to me, and a freshly fetched pistol in my hand, I relaxed my head against the tree, allowing myself to properly break down and submit to the pain.

As the time passed, I felt the effects of the morphine begin kicking in. This in combination with the amount of energy I've expended simply dragging myself a handful of meters is making it increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open. With a sigh of acceptance, I closed my eyes and felt the comforting arms of unconsciousness embrace me.

* * *

Flame and his friend Krake had regrouped with their group of friends after the duo made a stop by Flame's parents' place to drop off the groceries to his mother. They're all currently enjoying lunch in the dining hall of the residential wing of the Warfang Temple.

Since the conclusion of the Cataclysm Wars, the surviving population of Warfang has put in blood, sweat, and tears into rebuilding their city to and beyond its former glory. Four years may not be long, but the dedication to the mass rebuilding project has most definitely shown.

A prime example of this progress is the Warfang Temple. Since Malefor had aerially suspended, and subsequently destroyed, the previous temple, it was unanimously agreed that the successor should be constructed in the center of the now metropolis.

Seemingly infinitely larger than the previous Temple, this citadel-like structure serves as the chambers of the guardians as well as the educational center for the next generation of the elite, royalty, and exceptionally talented. Only a few hundred select individuals are accepted each cycle, but the knowledge they acquire is matched by no other.

Within the dining hall, at a circular table for eight, the group of elder teenagers laughed, talked, and altogether enjoyed each other's company.

"Say, you've told the story of fighting the Destroyer, but you never told us how exactly you stopped it." A green male drake, Vrano, pointed out.

"Yeah, tell us! We still have fifteen minutes 'til our afternoon class. I'm in the mood for a story!" The white and gold female to his right, Ayleona, encouraged.

With a smile and a sigh, Spyro shook his head and began. "Well, to begin with, we had to weaken it enough to create an opportunity to get inside-"

"You went _inside _it?!" Volk exclaimed with fascination, earning a whack upside the head from the tail of his white scaled female companion next to him.

"If you'd let me finish." Spyro snipped with sarcastic passive aggression. "As I said, we had to weaken it. That meant we had to fly around the _entire _beast in search of eleven dark crystals roughly the size of fourteen year old me, all-the-while dodging a thousand and one orc arrows and grublin fliers; which, mind you, isn't exactly the easiest task in the world when your tethered to a dragoness twice as fast as you." Spyro smirked while peeling a glance at Cynder, who had a mock expression of superiority on her face.

"Perhaps you should take Sparx' fat jokes as constructive criticism." The black scaled female shot playfully, earning a quick round of laughter from the group.

"Anyway, after taking forever and a day to find and destroy those crystals. We had to quite literally fly into the belly of the beast, where we found a massive crystal that I assume acted as its heart." Spyro lolled his tongue with a sigh for exaggeration. "By the Ancestors the _heat_. I don't think I'll ever understand how either of us didn't pass out, or better yet how Sparx even managed to survive."

"What was the Destroyer's heart like?" questioned the pink female, Ember, sitting next to Flame.

"Well, as Spyro said, it was massive. It could fill a student's room no problem. It was suspended in the center of the chamber, with nothing holding it up. It was… _extraterrestrial_. It beat and pulsed like a heart should, but at the same time, it didn't? It's hard to explain." Cynder answered.

"As for how it looked, it was the shade of purple you'd find on any other dark crystal. However, any time we'd attack it, it would resonate this unsettling groaning sound. Not like the creek of a door, but a groan like it was living. One of the most bizarre things I've ever heard." Spyro finished for his mate, earning a variety of looks of awe and wonder.

For the remainder of the time the dragons had, they kept themselves occupied with small talk and side conversations. Eventually, the train-like whistle went off, spouting small cones of steam to signal that the next series of classes have begun. Bidding each other farewell, they all separated and began walking to their afternoon classes.

"Hey Ember, wait up a second?" Flame called out, trotting up to the pink dragoness who had her eyes locked on him upon hearing her name.

"What's up Flame?" She greeted, a small smile on her face. Flame grinned in return and the two resumed walking.

"Two questions. One, if Master Volteer will allow me, would you mind if I joined your group for this weeks project? I had to shoulder pretty much all the work for last weeks and even then, we barely passed." The red complained with an eyeroll.

"Actually, I was going to request to switch out of my group as well for roughly the same problem. I'm paired with three guys who spend all their time ogling and hitting on me with bad pickup lines. We're supposed to have a pretty easy assignment this time, you just want to duo it out?" Ember offered.

"Y-yeah, that sounds great to me!" Flame responded, hoping she didn't notice his slight stutter.

Ember briefly closed her eyes and smiled. "Awesome!"

Flame felt his heart-rate spike and blood rush to his cheeks as he stared at her expression. _By the Ancestors she's beautiful. _In his stupor, Flame failed to notice the doorway he was walking towards. With a low _thud_, the drake walked full speed into the wall, knocking himself to the ground with a surprised and pained yelp.

"You okay there no-eyes?" Ember asked with a laugh. Flame chuckled, scratching the back of his neck between his fins with an embarrassed chuckle. "Anyway, what was your second question?" She turned to face him with an amused smile.

His mind suddenly drew blank, and his eyes darted pretty much everywhere but Ember's gaze. "I, uh. Don't worry about it, I'll ask you later." With that, he slipped past her and hastefully made his way to his seat.

_I'm onto you fireboy. _Ember thought with a rather devious chuckle before entering the class just as Volteer began his lecture.

* * *

Everything was just one consistent blur.

The first thing my mind registered was the dull pain resonating from my rib cage and bullet wounds. It wasn't _nearly _as intense and pissed off as it was in the pawn shop, but it was most certainly still making its presence known. A sluggish groan escaped my throat in response to the pain. I absentmindedly curled my legs in and out, as if I were experiencing growing pains. As my senses returned to me, I realized that I felt incredibly cold. My body occasionally shivered, and nose felt somewhat numb.

"Sounds like someone's having a splendid day." I hear someone comment with a raspy chuckle. My eyes refuse to clarify and dilate, but from what I can tell, the person next to me seems to be wearing a lot of dark blue.

"Wha-… Where… Where am I? Wh-who are you?" I stuttered. Being half asleep makes it hard enough to get a cognitive thought from mind to tongue, but working off a hit of morphine? Forget about it.

"My name is Meadow. As for where you are, you're in one of the many cheetah villages that dot the Valley of Avalar."

_Cheetah village? I must be having a lucid dream. _At least, that's what I was thinking. What came out of my mouth was a mix of drugged slurry attempts at sounds, with the only intelligible words being 'cheetah' and 'lucid'.

"What's that? Lucid… dream, I assume?" the elderly voice began with an amused chortle. "I can assure you that you are not sleeping. Some of my tribes hunters found you in a fairly rough state, slumped against a tree." The blur then moved something green and luminous to my forehead before gently tapping it. Suddenly, the side effects of the morphine just… _vanished_. As if I had never stuck myself in the first place. I could fully feel the entirety of my mouth once more, and my body and mind felt like it could properly breath.

My blood ran cold when my eyes began to dilate. The person wasn't wearing blue, he _was _blue. Standing in front, or rather sitting beside, me is an anthropomorphic, blue cheetah. He was wearing what looked like tribal shaman-like robes, decorated with various claw and moon shaped pendants and amulets. In his left… hand, was a staff. This staff was easily two meters tall, beginning with a form of a pummel and ending in an otherworldly green crystal, encased in a protective, spherical skeleton. All along the magical pole were symbols similar to the jewelry the shaman wore. They seemed to glow ever so faintly, the color matching that of the crystal catalyst at the tip.

"Y-you're… You're a cheetah?" I stared in awe, my jaw slack in amazement.

"Am I to assume you haven't seen the likes of my kind before?" The shaman raised an eyebrow. All I could do was dumbly shake my head 'no.' I took a deep breath and groaned as a wave of pain spread through my side as a result of the lung expansion. I looked down at my side and realized I was devoid of my clothes, the only modicum of decency I had was a soft wool tarp covering my lower regions. My chest was peppered with skin-deep cuts and black and purple bruises. There was a small, narrow, and shallow chunk of skin and muscle missing from my shoulder, most likely the result of either falling from the truck of a rifle bullet grazing me.

My eyes shifted downward and I saw that my broken leg was put into something between a splint and a cast. It was straight with my foot lax, there were three straight wooden poles on the bottom and either side of my leg, and a slightly curved longbow frame on bottom to account for my knee. Wrapping my leg seemed to be a sort of vine. I could feel the thorns of the vines sticking into my skin, but there was no pain. Rather beyond the numb sensation in my appendage, I could faintly _feel _the muscle and tendons at work repairing themselves. _Definitely a first for that feeling._ I thought to myself with mild interest.

"I-irrelevant. Is there anything you can do for my wounds?" I requested, my face scrunched up in response to the nerve excitement. The cheetah now known to me as Meadow tapped his staff on the floor, resulting in the crystal to illuminate, lighting the large tent-like room we resided in. He stood up and walked around my cot, sitting down on the rugs that separated us from the dirt floor.

"From what I examined while you were unconscious, it seems you have several broken ribs, two metal rocks lodged under your rib cage, multiple glass shards embedded in your arms, legs, and chest…" He trailed off, humming to himself as he gently ran a finger down the left side of my torso, judging my reaction to determine where the worst of the bone damage was.

After a moment, he stood up with a 'hmph'. "Yes, I and my tribes healers can shorten your road to recovery. The only reason I didn't heal you earlier is because of those rocks in your body." The cheetah explained. "For some reason, they interfere with my ethereal channeling. While not completely negating my magic, they do hinder its potency significantly."

The tribal healer sighed. "I'm afraid the only way for my work to be of any use is if you allow us to dig them out." My heart-rate accelerated with anxiety upon hearing the news. I took a deep breath and nodded.

"I suppose I don't have a choice. When can we get this done?" Meadow's eyes glinted with joy, the cheetah grateful for the alien creature's cooperation.

"We can be done before twilight gives way to night." To reinforce his point, the blue cat walked to the tent flaps and pulled one back, revealing the beautiful evening sky to the foreigner. "I and my fellow healers will need a moment of time to sanitize our claws and tools."

I nodded with another stress-coping exhale. "Alright, thank you." Meadow closed his eyes and nodded in response before moving to leave.

"Wait!" I called out just before he let go of the tent flap. The shaman paused in movement at the entrance. "Why are you helping me?" I asked him.

The mystical cheetah chuckled in response. "I must prepare if you are to heal. Ask me that again after the procedure, when we have time."

With that, the flap fell, leaving me in the soft firelight of a torch mounted to the main support pole. I relaxed my head back into the semi-soft pillow of the makeshift bed I was given, attempting to calm myself down as I dwelled on my imminent surgery, as well as my equivocal future. There weren't many solid thoughts or ideas that stuck, but one thing was for certain.

Things were going to get _very _interesting.

**Chapter started 09/30/19. Chapter finished 01/04/20. Minor edits 01/06/2020  
**

**What's up, ya boi survived clawing through my first semester. Not sure if I'll either be able to afford to go another or be able to get ahold of a loan in time but fuck it. I hate authors notes, so I'll try to keep these stupid word clutterers few and far between. **

**Again, I'm not a consistent uploader, but I'll try to do better than once per quarter. For some clarification, when I use the term 'hand' with the inhabitants of the Dragon Realms, I don't mean a humanistic hand. I refer to a human *like* hand. The anthropomorphic-structured and feral-structured species will remain as they are respectively. Having them have opposable thumbs just gives me infinitely more breathing room with world interactions.**

**I'll try to have chapter three out before the end of January, but it'll probably be out by February at latest. Read, review, tell me I'm shit, do whatever. Happy holidays motherfuckers!**

**/I'M ALSO LOOKING FOR A BETA READER, SOMEONE WITH WRITING EXPERIENCE. IF YOU'RE INTERESTED, PM ME AND WE'LL DISCUSS\\\**

**Words: 4,000  
**

**Your unseasonably late writer,**

**-Dothurnaax**


	3. III: Surgery & Social Isolation

**Stranger in a Strange Land**

**By Dothurnaax**

**Chapter III: Surgery & Social Isolation  
**

_By the Ancestors, can this class be any more boring? _Therma mentally groaned, resting her head on her desk as she fought to stay awake. The dragoness kept checking the time piece on the wall above the chalk board, praying each time that it'd be time to leave. However, each time her atomic orange eyes glanced at the clock, it seemed to move slower and slower.

The dragoness was in her elemental theories class. She had hoped that her professor would have an assignment waiting for her class, something, _anything_ to keep her attention focused and her eyes open. But it seems the Ancestors felt like making her day more difficult than it needed to be. First with her sleepless nights, now with what _had _to be the most boring, monotone lecture she has had to sit through. Her slender cyan body was hunched over the desk in front of her, shouldering her weight while she fought an uphill battle against the temptations of sleep. Right as she was prepared to give up and succumb to a nap, the elder ice guardian's voice pinged her awake.

"_In conclusion_," Cyril exclaimed, intentionally jolting many of the students who had long since fallen asleep awake, "the interbreeding of the cryptid and dhruven branches of dragons in the first age of civilization is believed to be the origin of the nocturnal elements. Any questions?" The elder was met with a sea of inattentive eyes, with very few actually paying attention. With a sigh, he shook his head.

"Before you leave, I have decided to cancel our next class. It's clear that the festival kept many of you from recuperating. When we gather next week, I expect everyone to be well rested and prepared. We are beginning our semester projects, so for your sake, I hope you took good notes. Class dismissed." With a collective sigh, the younger dragons stood from their desks and filed out of the door.

"Therma," the ice guardian called out, "a moment, if you will?" The dragoness stopped, cursing herself silently and sidestepped out of the way of the remaining dragons, turning to face her elder.

"The rest of your class I had expected this from. But you're practically my pupil. Put an old drake's heart at rest and assure me you weren't partaking in any of the… _degrading _activities your nigh-degenerate peers find so much fascination in." Cyril commented, sneering at the thought of the less-than-appropriate things known to commonly take place at the harvest festival.

The Harvest Festival is an event that is held all throughout the realms just prior to the week of harvest, meant to celebrate the gods or ancestors, depending on the civilization, and pray for a good harvest. Well, this is the _official _description. Those of the younger generation find it to be an excuse to get wasted, high, party, and hookup with as many males and females as they can get their hands on. This problem is especially prevalent in Warfang, with the festival almost traditionally ending in dozens of youthful drakes being arrested, fined, and some booted from the Temple all together depending on the severity of the offense.

"I apologize for my lack of attentiveness Master Cyril, and no, I wasn't. I'm a recluse, not a _whore_. I just haven't been resting well lately. I won't fall asleep in your class again." She hung her head, shuffling her feet. "What… What did you cover today?" Therma asked in shame. To her surprise, her professor had simply chuckled.

"I prepared this lesson to be irrelevant in anticipation of an unresponsive audience. Worry not my dear, nothing vital was covered. Your next course is Terrador's Primal Combat, correct? You'd best be off. Can't have Dyonos royalty being late to such a barbaric class, now can we?" Cyril chuckled, walking the dragoness to the doorway. Therma beamed her elder with a grateful smile.

"Thank you Master Cyril, I really appreciate your generosity. Have a wonderful day." With a tired bow of her head, the dragoness began walking across the Temple to the training grounds.

* * *

Michael laid in his cot, his eyes locked with the cheetah shaman's as he plotted out the 'upcoming healing process,' as Meadow put it.

"The first thing we have to do is ensure you're not harboring any infection or poison. Once the magic clears you of that, our next task will be setting your leg. With the way it looks, after we remove the numbing vines, it will hopefully be a simple twist and pull. Unfortunately, the pain you will experience cannot be downplayed as easily." Meadow explained, a look of remorse crossing his face.

"Don't sweat it, you're just doing your job." Michael assured, an understanding smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "Am I to assume you're saving the best for last?" The injured human's tone was practically dripping with sarcasm, erecting a brief bout of laughter from the shaman and his assistant.

"I'm afraid so. I am pleased to inform you that despite what you may gather, we are beyond the age of stone and rock. I need you awake and aware for setting your leg to ensure that it remains functional after the procedure, but before we go digging our hands into your chest cavity, I will send you into an anesthesia-induced coma. From your perspective, it will be as quick as a nap. From ours, a fortnight."

Michael's eyes bulged at this news. "Two weeks? Is that necessary? Is… is there a chance I won't wake up?" As much as he tried, he couldn't hide the terror in his voice.

Meadow chuckled and rested a hand on his alien friend's healthy shoulder, careful not to touch any of the cuts. "Worry not my friend, there is no risk in the anesthesia. It comes from a flower blessed by the same magical energy that courses through my staff." His eyes gave away his shift of mood before his next set of words could.

"That being said however, yes, it is necessary. There is already a realistic chance that this procedure may kill you. A small chance, but still a possibility nonetheless. Your body needs to be as calm and unresponsive as possible in order for us to get those metal rocks out of you. To my knowledge, you're the only one of your kind in existence in this world, so a transfusion is not an option. And since the healing crystals that many species rely on for healing don't work on you, whatever blood you have in your body is what we have to work with." Michael closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down with a sigh. "Fortunately," Meadow continued before the human could get a word in, "the anesthesia slows your heart-rate to a crawl. Bleeding out is among the least of my worries."

"I understand," Michael responded, his anxiety beginning to stifle, "your duty _might_ be easier if I'm not thrashing like a dying fish. I'm assuming you're going to be making an incision in me as well? Your claws don't exactly qualify as micro-instruments."

Meadow patted a hand on my shoulder, a silent gesture of reassurance. "You needn't worry my friend. We may be a tribal society, but we're not savages. You're in safe hands." The cheetah cleared his throat and stood up. "Now, if all your inquiries have been satisfied, are you ready to begin?"

Michael nodded. As if on cue, the two assistants reentered the tent, a series of leather straps in their hands.

"Tie down his arms and his right leg. Be careful with the dislocation, it may be fractured." Meadow instructed. The females proceeded with their orders and firmly secured my arms and my uninjured leg. "This is to limit how much your reaction to the pain will affect the relocation process."

The shaman proceeded to lightly run his hand up and down Michael's leg a few times with his eyes closed, feeling for any signs of fracture or breakage. The human stifled a groan of pain. Even the light touch was enough for his brain to start dumping adrenaline through his nervous system. As the cheetah's hand sensed, Michael noticed the gem atop the staff begin to glow faintly, accompanied by a soft, pleasant chiming sound. The sound was calming, really. It almost managed to bring his mind off of the pain he was experiencing.

Almost.

All at once, a riptide of pain tore up his leg. A harsh scream of agony erupted from Michael's throat accompanied by a rapid firing of every curse word the poor bastard could think of, his body trying it's hardest to thrash and tear at his restraints; all to no avail. Meadow kept his hand steady, channeling the restorative magic through his fingertips. The damaged ligaments and tendons encapsulated in muscle slowly repairing and reforming to their original state. "Shira, pull!" The shaman ordered to his assistant.

With a tight grip, the female cheetah clenched her core muscles and slowly leaned back, pulling the humans leg with her. After an excruciating few moments, everyone in the tent heard a loud, muffled _pop!_

Michael gasped, feeling himself become winded from the painful, yet overpoweringly _foreign _feeling. For a second more, the pain continued. Following that, a wave of relief flooded his body, followed by a numb tingling sensation. Meadow persisted with his magical flow, scrutinizing the image of the alien leg provided to his mind's eye by his magic.

Barely a minute later, Meadow removed his hand from the human's skin, resolving the healing process, indicated by his staff ceasing its illumination.

"S-sorry about the cussing... Is... is it over?" The cheetah's patient asked in between huffs, to which he received a hearty laugh in response.

"The first part of your healing process, yes. Your extremity is functional, albeit still bearing minor fractures. If you're feeling drained of energy, worry not. Your body is simply working its hardest to become accustomed to the magic used. Shira, the anesthetic, if you will?" The female bowed her head and produced a palm sized leaf from a pouch tied to her waist. In the dim light, all Michael could make of it was that it was blue, and had a series of white veins traveling throughout its body.

"This is a leaf plucked from the plant known as the _Lotus_ _Cerebrum_. This has two purposes; one being a lethal poison. This use gives it the infamous nickname _Kingslayer_, and as I'm sure you can piece together, it has been used in numerous infamous assassinations." Meadow spoke, withholding a laugh after noticing the alien's grip on the cot tighten.

"Of course, to covert this beautiful plant into such a sinister concoction requires a variety of extremely unstable conditions and a number of other dangerous ingredients of I do not have. Its other more smiled upon use is as an anesthetic. All I have to do to convert it to such a state is to ring its liquids out onto a patch of cloth, and have you inhale. There is no need to worry my foreign friend, all you'll notice is a strong minty scent and a quick bout of a light head. After that, a fortnight of some of the deepest sleep you'll ever experience." The cheetah shaman had his assistant hold a small piece of fabric out like a rack while he twisted and crushed the leaf in his fur-covered hands.

Meadow sat down next to the restrained human, the cloth in one hand with the other behind Michael's head. "Are you ready?"

_So **this **is what it's like to get chloroformed. _The human thought, cracking the faintest of smirks. With a deep breath, he nodded. "Just promise me that I'll have something to eat when I wake up." Meadow let out a soft laugh, his ears pinned back with an amused expression shaping his face. "I'll see what I can do. Now, empty your lungs, and breathe deeply."

Michael exhaled, then felt the damp cloth being gently pressed to his nose and mouth. He inhaled deeply, almost coughing from the intense scent of spearmint. For a moment, he felt nothing. Then, all at once, vertigo hit him like a ton of bricks. In an instant, the injured human's eyes rolled upward, and he was out.

With a reassuring pat on the shoulder, Meadow stood up, handing the cloth to his female companion. "Keep that wet and save it for tonight's fire. I'm sure our tribe will enjoy a fresh smelling-village for a change." Shira nodded, taking the fabric and exiting the tent.

Not a moment later, a familiar burnt orange cheetah clad in thick leather and bronze armor entered, extending his hand to the shaman. "Your apprentice tells me it's asleep. How fairs the alien?"

Meadow accepted the hand, shaking firmly before turning back to the creature. "Chief Prowlus, a welcome surprise to see you here so quickly. It slipped my mind to identify exactly _what_ he is, but his name is Michael. From what I can tell, he's still somewhat of a youth. Can't be any older than twenty years. As for his health, something gave him quite the thrashing; two cracked ribs, several more broken, a fractured forearm, sprained ankles and wrists, possibly a damaged spine. He had a dislocated leg, but Shira and I took care of that, as I'm sure you heard earlier. What fascinates me most though is two things. One, there is a penetration point, here to be precise." Meadow knelt down, Prowlus following in suit. "There's some sort of metal rock lodged fairly deep in his side. Fortunately, it hasn't pierced anything vital."

"Two, is the lacerations on his torso and upper extremities. Those weren't caused by branches, arrows, or blades. There was _glass_. The poor bastard was peppered in an unknown type of glass. It didn't crack and break into large chunks like the glass we are familiar with. It shattered and splintered, like wood. You could split it like a log." Meadows head turned and his eyes met his chiefs. "Where in the name of the gods did this creature come from? And how far must he have traveled to end up in the middle of Avalar with a metal rock and _glass_ in his body?"

Prowlus stood up and extended a hand, pulling Meadow back up to standing. "There will be time for questions when it awakens. For now, all that needs to be worried about is making sure this thing survives the surgery."

Meadow nodded, glancing back at Michael. "His body will need an hour to acclimate to the Lotus' effects before it can safely be operated on. How does lunch sound?" Prowlus smiled, slapping a hand on the shaman's shoulder. "My friend, you read my mind _and _my belly. Come! My wife just finished preparing last night's hunt."

* * *

Therma was lying against the wall of the training arena at the top of the observation stands, watching her instructor demonstrate a series of defense and counter attack maneuvers towards the end of her Primal Combat course. The techniques Master Terrador was teaching had already been mastered by the cyan dragoness. In fact, the only reason she was in this class to begin with was because it was required for her to enroll in intermediate combat and elemental combat. The mean age of her peers taking this course was fourteen, with her being in the latter half of sixteen. This still didn't stop her from being a bit sore from the physical practice half of the class, where she'd be pitted against multiple of her classmates in a series of one on one sparring sessions, each lasting roughly five minutes. Shifting her eyes from the guardian, she took in the expanse of the training arena.

The miniature colosseum was easily a hundred meters in diameter, with a ceiling vaulted probably two thirds the length high. Circular in shape, the actual arena was somewhere near fifty meters across. Ringing the edge of the battleground was a ten meter tall wall, which lead directly to the observation stands. When the arena hosts internal duels or anything deserving of similar importance and respect, a chain web-net is descended from the ceiling, providing a form of protection for those seated higher up in the stands watching.

The stands themselves could no doubt seat a few thousand, if the royal dragoness had to guess. Her class was sizable, numbering close to a hundred, but when planted in the empty stands, it seemed like nothing more than a ragtag group of misfits. Of course, for the _Dragon Temple of Warfang_, one could expect those who constructed it to pull out all stops.

The floor was covered in fertile dirt with grass growing in whatever spots of the arena that _hadn't _been ripped up by the innumerable instances of claws, fists, bodies, and explosions. From what she understood, the soil was restored to its original, non-wartorn-esque state by a series of enchantments woven into the walls and floors by the wizards of the Vynex Kingdom; a powerful ally of the Order of Avalar ruled by a coalition of the avian species. _Where those birds lack in physical strength they more than make up for in magical competency._ The dragoness thought to herself with an amused huff.

Therma diverted her attention to her younger peers, taking notice as some quietly mingled amongst themselves, while others paid rigorous attention to Master Terrador. Social interaction hadn't exactly been the female's strongest suit. Due to her being the daughter of King Kryos and Queen Pyridia, she had a very _pompous_ upbringing. Since the day she hatched, it had been the finest meats, the purest water, the sweetest wine, the most luxurious toys, and the most dreadfully _lonely _social life. Being princess, she wasn't allowed to mingle with commoners, or even the lower tiers of nobility. No, the closest thing to a friend she had was a secret friendship with one of her personal servants when she was but a child; a poor elementless dragoness named Hyria. Even then, that friendship only lasted two years before her father found out, and _had her executed _under the pretense that Hyria was attempting to corrupt the princess. Tears stung the corners of her eyes as she remembered the day she was taken away. No one ever _told _her that Hyria had been executed, but when armor-clad royal guards escort a servant to the Court of Jarls? Therma may have been sheltered, but she wasn't stupid.

Fortunately for her, her father released these frighteningly tight restraints on her social life after she had begged him for months on end to allow her to study and train under the elemental guardians at the Warfang Temple. At least now she won't have to worry about any of her friends being _beheaded_. Unfortunately for her, her social skills were akin to that of a shitfaced ape. She had absolutely no clue how to approach people in any manner other than the condescending and commanding sense that she used with her servants, manners courtesy of her parents. Because of this lack of societal friendliness, she can only assume that the majority of the people who second guess approaching her is due to her appearing to be a stuck up noble _bitch_. Aside from her mentors, the farthest she's gotten is recognition and a friendly smile from the two heroes, Spyro and Cynder. And this angered her to no end.

Her head tilted down and her eyes examined her lazed cyan and orange scaled body. She didn't _intend_ to seem stuck up. In fact, she actively tried to appear the exact _opposite _of high society. She kept her head hung slightly, her tail relaxed, her strides just confident enough to ensure that she didn't trip. To the outside eye, she presumed that she looked almost sad, or depressed. And in reality, that apple wasn't too far from the tree.

Another aspect of her life that infuriated her nearly to the point of homicidal action; the fucking _suitors_. By the Ancestors her father never gives up. Every month, she is greeted by a stuck up, high class, egotistical _douche bag _of a dragon hailing from a potential ally of her kingdom. Usually a prince or son of a duke, these pricks seemed infinite in number. They always spoke down to her, always treated her like an objective rather than a living breathing dragoness, and always just _expected _her to fall head over heels for them.

And she always nearly breaks out laughing at their reaction when she verbally tears them apart. Be it utter heartbreak, complete confusion, or absolute rage, she has seen it all. Recently, she's caught wind of her at-the-time current suitors and her bitter past suitors calling her the _Rage of_ _Dyonos. _She snorted in amusement. _A fitting title I suppose, coming from the blundering idiots I've had to scare off._ She's never physically lashed out at any of the males. Never had to, except for once.

She was in her first days at the Temple, still exploring the massive complex and get a complete grasp on where was up and where was down, so to speak. The fourth suitor to be sent to her, a particularly massive prick by the name of _Toronth, _hailing from the mining kingdom of Naraloth. He had acted like the previous suitors, egotistical, prideful, and an asshole in general. Difference between Toronth and the previous suitors was his reaction to the rejection. Toronth simply wouldn't accept it. And as the weeks passed, he got more and more aggressive with his advances. Eventually, a month after she initially rejected him, he attempted to force himself on her after breaking into her room. She fended him off, albeit with multiple blood-drawing scratches on her shoulders and hips, along with a rather deep slash down her side. But what she dealt in return is incomparable to a measly scar down her body.

_Toronth the Headless_. She thought with a twisted snicker. After all, it _was _the first time she had held a male's cock. Why shouldn't she take a souvenir? This little incident nearly sparked war between his kingdom and hers, but after a confession from the opposing king's son, these threats were quickly redacted, and all hostilities ceased.

A sudden booming voice snapped her out of her meta-analysis, returning her attention to her instructor for the second time today. _I have to stop doing this. It's only a matter of time before I begin falling behind. Even in such a trivial class. _The dragoness mentally warned herself.

"This will conclude today's demonstration. I encourage you all to rest and eat well, for your first physical placement exam will be held during our next class at the end of the week. It will consist of every defensive, countering, and offensive technique that I've taught you so far. If you pay attention and practice, you will do well. Class dismissed." Terrador announced just as the train whistle howled. Therma sighed and climbed to her feet, her book satchel slung around her neck and leg. She trotted down the steps to the bottom of the stands and made her way to the corridor that lead out of the arena and into the rest of the temple.

As she exited the corridor, she was slammed to ground with a wheeze as the air was forced from her lungs. She saw spots in her vision as she struggled to breathe momentarily. Looking up at her attacker, she saw two female drakes, one a light blue and another a deep forest green. A larger, presumably male, dragon walked in between them. Leaning his head down, he hissed. "This is only the beginning, _barbarian_ _whore_." Were it not for the suffocating pain, her attention would be focused on what the in the name of the Ancestors this male was talking about.

Before she could utter any response, her face was swiftly met with the tail-club of the green. A wave of dull pain hit her almost as hard as the club. She felt blood being pooling in her mouth and leak past her lips as she realized the impact made her almost bite through her tongue. She growled and attempted to stand to defend herself, but a tail slam to her gut quickly suppressed the rebellious idea. Her head bounced on the marble floor once more, the victim completely defeated. A harsh series of chuckles emanated from the trio, followed by a wad of spit being shot onto her cheek and closed eye. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they left.

She laid there for what seemed like hours - when in reality it was only a few short moments - pondering her predicament while struggling to regain her breath. Why did they assault her? What were they talking about? Why did they call her a barbarian whore?

_Why did no one stop to help? _The last question rang particularly loudly in her mind. She wiped the spit from her face, the moisture soon being replaced by a few tears. While she struggled to stand, she heard the heavy thudding footfalls of Terrador.

"Therma, by the Ancestors, what happened to you?!" His rumbling voice was filled with concern and worry.

"I... I was attacked. I didn't see... them coming." She squeaked, her voice unprofessionally cracking as she managed to speak. She looked up to see the earth guardian's eyes dilate and his nostrils flare. "Do you know who did this to you? What they look like?"

The female finally regained confidence in her own legs, standing three heads under the elder guardian. _I can't allow myself to be protected and pampered like at home. This is a problem I have to face on my own. _"No, I didn't catch a look at them. They kept my gaze averted. Master Terrador, I am grateful for your concern, but you needn't waste your time on this. I can handle it."

The instructor wasn't having any of it. "None sense. You're the heiress to the Dyonos Empire. We can't have common students _assaulting _royalty. In your lands, this would be a death sent-."

"In my lands, the punishment would be determined by the eldest member of the Dyonos family; being my father. My father is not present, making _me _the eldest member. And I say there is no point in executing a couple of royalty hating _peasants _simply because they landed a cheap shot!" Therma exclaimed, a defensive sneer on her muzzle. Her eyes immediately grew wide as she interpreted what had slipped her tongue. _Ancestors curse me, I let it happen again. _Eyes still locked with the guardians, she felt guilty for lashing out at the only individual in the room willing to extend a helping hand.

"I... I apologize for my outburst, Master Terrador. What I'm trying to say is that I'm sick of being treated like glass. So a few... peers, decided to bully me. This is a common outcome when insecurity meets jealousy, is it not? No one will respect me if I cower behind the wings of authority. Allow me to work this out for myself." Terrador's muzzle bent into a soft frown.

"You're _Princess Therma_, you deserve eve-." Once more, the female cut him off.

"People respect the title sir, not the person bearing it." She stated, her eyes dipping away from the protective gaze of the elder. "I overextended myself a bit during training, I-I better go get lunch. Thank you for your concern and hospitality. I'll reflect it in my report to my father." With this, she turned and left for the dining hall, leaving a confused and extremely concerned guardian alone in the now empty halls.

* * *

**Alright I gotta address something. To the dickhead anon who keeps spamming the review section about all the Islam bullshit: Fuck. Off. I don't give a shit what you think about the religion. It's my chosen prologue antagonist for no other reason than it's the first thing to come to mind. If I ever rewrite this thing, the setting will be changed to a second American Revolution against the tyrannical US federal government. Cause fuck the government and everyone in it. Back to the dickhead. I don't care, I'm not interested, your sales pitch sucks, so fuck off. I'm going to keep deleting your comments, so you might as well go preach you radical anti-Muslim bullshit somewhere else.**

***sigh***

**Moving on, I know I said this would be out by January 26th, but come on, March 24th might as well be the same day. Thanks for 700 views for two shitty chapters. Now that Michael's out cold, I won't be writing him for a few chapters. The closest it will get will be the Valley Tribe. Moving past future shenanigans, thank all three of you who _aren't _religious zealots for your reviews, and thank all of you who favorite and follow my story. It still kinda baffles me that people are interested enough in my work to expect more. Whether it be a deep critical analysis of my latest work, or a simple "good job", it really goes a long way for my inspiration and motivation to write. I do this for two audiences; myself, and you guys.**

**No promises on Chapter IV. I'm failing 4 of my 5 college classes and I need to get my shit together. That, and I think I've proven that I'm incompetent in keeping up with deadlines _regardless _of circumstances.**

**Chapter started 01/04/20**

**Chapter completed 03/24/20**

**Minor editing 04/07/20**

**Words: 5,093**

**Your questionably healthy dragon obsessee,**

**-Dothurnaax**


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